Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Hands

You brush your hair in the eveningsHumid curls with every stroke As if moist fingers tousled your locks You say it's the damp heat In our room So I turn on the AC And enjoy this sky blue fiddle She walks to the kitchen counter Her robe half open He admires a peek of her breast As she goes on about her business Yet shudders at the depths of life And death Between her legs If I would've surrendered Like a civilian told to throw The white flag In the trenches My reward would proudly Be a house With too many bathroomsAnd a bed that's just For me To sleep

Dude- the ending of this was so tight. This told me a bitter tale- of lust unfulfilled- and maybe rightly so- the bed for just you to keep in....who is this woman I wonder?....loving your sharp, raw poems- I really am. So good.

oh man! this is up there with your best for sure - it has your stamp all over it - refined to within an inch of a personal aesthetic that i admirefor its balls out individuality and above all - awesome lines of poetry :)

Oh, but Anthony you would never have surrendered who you are. This then is a cautionary tale for others. Know yourself before you engage in unions that will not matter, will not satisfy, will not endure. Awesome, friend!

Mad and crazy poetry. This is just great writing. The twists and turns. You never linger to long in one place, thought, image. You lead us to believe one thing, only to introduce us to another. I love reading your poetry man. I do.

Perfect build to the most amazing turn... you play a fiddle with inspired fingers Anthony. Loved it on first read..second merely confirmed the craft of it..and yet so fresh on the page. Clever. But the emotional strike, floored.